The House on the Cliff

by D. E. Stevenson

  Elfrida was less worried than Ronnie about the future; she was less impatient. If necessary she could wait two years for Ronnie . . . and meantime she could get on with her plans for the farm and make Mountain Cross self-supporting as her grandfather had desired. Two years was a long time but Ronnie was worth waiting for . . . she could see him sometimes and they could write to each other.

  Ronnie had told her that he had loved her “from the first moment”; he had asked “when did you begin to love me?” but she had not been able to tell him. Even now, looking back and thinking about it seriously, she could not tell the precise moment when her feeling of friendship for Ronnie had changed to love . . . but it had not really “changed,” thought Elfrida. Her feeling of friendship had grown and deepened and ripened. That was what had happened. It had not taken long—just a few days—but they had been days of close companionship and Ronnie was so crystal-clear that she knew him as well as if they had been friends for years. He was “real”; he was absolutely honest and natural and he had a boyish awkwardness that appealed to her heart . . . Elfrida was sick and tired of airs and graces!

  She remembered how he had hastened towards her across the beach and flung himself down on the rug at her side with his arms and legs in a careless and somewhat inelegant attitude. He had not been thinking of his arms and legs; he had been thinking of Elfrida Jane and how “splendid” she looked! Then she had told him about the accident and, later, about her infatuation for Glen and in each case he had shown the right reaction. He was good and kind and dependable; he was understanding and considerate; he was full of fun. She had watched him with Patrick and had seen him gain the boy’s trust and affection without the slightest effort, but simply by being himself.

  All this time Elfrida had known that Ronnie loved her and gradually she realised that he had become very dear to her heart and she could not be happy without him. She wanted to be with him, caring for him and being cared for, all her life.

  *

  39

  The day seemed very long to Elfrida—she had been up and about before six o’clock—so she went to bed early. It was a warm night, not a breath of air was stirring, and presently there was a growl of thunder in the distance. Elfrida could not sleep . . . she began to feel less hopeful about the future. She had made up her mind that if necessary she could wait two years for Ronnie, but now she began to wonder whether Ronnie would wait two years. He had said two years was an awfully long time to wait . . . and there was that Anthea girl, thought Elfrida, as she turned over and over restlessly. The Anthea girl was a Wilkins and lived at Uxbridge, so Ronnie would see her nearly every day; Ronnie’s mother liked her and wanted Ronnie to marry her . . . the “whole flock of partners and relations” who lived at Uxbridge wanted Ronnie to marry her.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Elfrida to herself, as she sat up and shook her pillow and turned it over with the cool side upper-most. “Ronnie loves you dearly; you know that, don’t you? Why can’t you be sensible and go to sleep?”

  The thunder which had been rolling in the distance, like Drake’s drum, came nearer and nearer. Suddenly the room was illuminated by a blinding flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by an ear-splitting crash of thunder; the clouds opened and the rain came pouring down, hissing and splashing on the roof, gurgling in the gutters.

  Elfrida got up, shut the west window and lay down again. She felt better, now that the rain had come, and presently went to sleep . . . but the Anthea girl haunted her dreams in a very uncomfortable manner.

  *

  In spite of her bad night Elfrida got up early and went to church. It was a lovely sunshiny morning and everything was fresh and sweet after the heavy rain. In the cottage gardens the roses were in their second bloom, scenting the air with fragrance. The world was so beautiful that Elfrida’s spirits rose and her “night thoughts” seemed foolish.

  As she walked along she remembered the Sunday morning when she and Mr. Sandford had gone to church together. They had talked about Ronnie. Mr. Sandford had said that Ronnie was “a good boy” and had added that he could not be fonder of Ronnie if he were his own son . . . so he would listen sympathetically, when Ronnie spoke to him, and give his consent to the marriage. Elfrida felt sure of this . . . or almost sure.

  The little church was dim and shadowy after the brightness of the outside world and the congregation was small. Elfrida prayed for Ronnie; that he might have a long, happy, useful life and that she might share it. Her heart went soaring up beyond the dark oaken beams into the bright blue summer sky.

  Judith Doubleday was in church this morning, so Elfrida walked home as far as the post office with her. She was a pretty young woman with quiet eyes and a gentle manner—not in the least like either of her parents. Elfrida had seen her before quite often but had never spoken to her alone so it was rather pleasant to have this quiet chat.

  They talked about the roses.

  “The second bloom is early this year,” said Judith. “It’s lovely, isn’t it, Miss Ware? I do love roses.”

  “So do I,” replied Elfrida. “I want to get the rose-garden at Mountain Cross tidied up and put in order.”

  “I hope you like living here,” said Judith anxiously. “We were afraid you might find it dull after London. Dad is so happy about the pigs; he’s always wanted to keep pigs but Mr. Ware wouldn’t let him. It’s made such a difference to Dad having pigs to look after . . . and when Dad is happy Mum is happy too.”

  Elfrida saw the point of this little speech but it was difficult to know how to answer; her plans were so chaotic . . . but Judith was looking at her and waiting, so after a slight hesitation she said, “I love Mountain Cross.”

  “That’s good,” said Judith. “I was just wondering, you see. I was going to ask if you’d let Mum bring Pat to tea with us this afternoon. It would be nice for Henry James.”

  “It would be nice for Patrick,” said Elfrida, smiling at her. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Doubleday; I’m sure he would enjoy it.”

  “They’ll be going to the Children’s Service, so they can come in afterwards,” said Judith nodding.

  They said good-bye at the post office and Elfrida walked on by herself; she was pleased to think that Patrick was going to the Doubledays’. In some ways he was too old for his age but that was the fault of his upbringing. He had never had the life of a normal child.

  When Emma heard of the invitation she was delighted and agreed that it would be “nice” for the boys to make friends. She would take Pat to the Children’s Service and they would go to tea at the post office—it was an admirable arrangement. Patrick was not so pleased; he was shy of strangers and was perfectly happy at home. In spite of Emma’s assurance that he would enjoy the Children’s Service; (there would be chocolate cake for tea and a clockwork railway to play with), he went off with her somewhat reluctantly.

  Elfrida could not help smiling as she watched the two figures trotting down the avenue. They made a funny pair.

  Yesterday had seemed a long day, but to-day seemed even longer. Elfrida had slept badly; she had gone to church early and had spent the morning on the beach with Patrick. The house was quiet, now that Emma and Patrick had gone, so she decided to take a book and sit in the parlour and read.

  It certainly was the sensible thing to do but unfortunately she was too restless to settle down quietly. She read several pages of the book and discovered that she had not taken in a word. She discovered that she was thinking of Ronnie and wondering when he would come. It was hopeless trying to read so she put down the book and decided to do some weeding. Weeding is a peaceful occupation . . . and useful too. There were plenty of weeds in Mountain Cross garden.

  She saw Chowne, who was in charge of the house this afternoon, and told him she would not come in for tea; then she put on her gardening apron and sallied forth.

  Elfrida weeded a whole row of late peas very carefully by hand. Then she started on a row of runner beans. She tried not to think; she had thought about the
future, sometimes hopefully and sometimes in black despair.

  Ronnie had said he would come to-day, even if it were just to say good-bye . . . but she could not bear to say good-bye to Ronnie! No, she could not bear it! She sat back on her heels and looked round the garden; it had become familiar and dear to her, but without Ronnie it would be a desert. It can’t be worse than two years, she thought. I could bear to wait two years . . . if Ronnie could bear it . . .

  She seized the little fork and continued her task. She decided not to think about Ronnie; she would think of Emma and Patrick. They would be having tea now, sitting round the table at the Doubledays’ and eating chocolate cake. She hoped Patrick was not feeling shy; it was horrid to feel shy; it made you dull and stupid—she knew that by bitter experience.

  When would Ronnie come? But it was silly to keep on thinking about it and expecting him. He had said he would be late, so it was no good expecting him to arrive until after supper, perhaps not until nine or ten o’clock!

  Elfrida had just made up her mind, quite firmly, that she would not begin to expect Ronnie until nine o’clock when the green door burst open and here he was!

  He ran down the path and took her in his arms. “It’s all right!” he cried joyously. “It’s all right, darling!”

  “Ronnie, do you mean . . .”

  “Yes. He’s pleased!”

  “Pleased?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes. Oh, goodness, I’m so happy! I’m so frightfully happy that I feel as if I’m going to burst!”

  “You told him . . .”

  “I told him everything. At first he was surprised, because Mother had been prattling to him about Anthea, but when I explained that Anthea was Mother’s idea—not mine at all—and that I had fallen in love with you, head over heels, the very first moment I saw you, he understood at once . . . so it was easy to go on and tell him everything.”

  “He didn’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. He understood, you see. When I told him how marvellous you were, how sweet and dear and beautiful, he nodded and said you were very like your mother.”

  “What has that got to do with it?”

  “Everything,” declared Ronnie.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, of course you don’t understand, darling. I’m so crazy with happiness that I’m telling it all back to front. Let’s sit down and I’ll try to be sensible.”

  They sat down together on the seat by the lily pool and Ronnie put his arm round her waist.

  “That’s better,” he said. “I’ve got you safe now. All the way down in the car I kept on thinking that something awful might have happened to you.”

  “What could have happened to me here?”

  “You might have been drowned or the house might have gone on fire or you might have been run over by a car on the way to church or you might have——”

  “Ronnie do be sensible!”

  “Yes, I must be sensible,” he agreed. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I told you Uncle Bob was fond of you, didn’t I? I told you when we were coming down here together in the Jag—but you didn’t believe me. Well, I was right; that’s the beginning of everything. He loves you because you’re like your mother.

  “Long ago he was in love with Marjory Ware. He had known her when she was a child—he often came to Mountain Cross—and he had watched her grow up into a lovely young girl. He knew Marjory was fond of him but she was so young, barely eighteen, that instead of telling her that he loved her dearly and wanted to marry her he decided to speak to her parents.”

  “People did that in the old days, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, it was the right thing to do and he knew that the Wares liked him—they were always pleased to see him whenever he could come—so he thought they would be sympathetic and kind.”

  “But they weren’t?” asked Elfrida.

  “Anything but! They were astonished and dismayed; they said Marjory was just a child; they wanted her to go about and meet people and see the world before there was any talk of her being engaged. They pointed out that he had only just become a junior partner in the firm and ought to be sticking to his work instead of thinking of marriage. Finally Mr. Ware asked what his income was and whether he thought it sufficient to support a girl like Marjory who had lived in comfort all her life.”

  “Goodness, how awful for him!” exclaimed Elfrida.

  “Yes, awful,” agreed Ronnie. “He tried to explain that he hadn’t expected their consent to an engagement. He had just wanted them to know that he loved Marjory; he thought the honest thing to do was to tell them. He said he was willing to wait until she was older; he would wait as long as they liked before saying a word to Marjory. They wouldn’t listen. They said he had no right to think of marriage until he had settled down and was making a good income.”

  “Just what you thought he would say to you!”

  “Yes, I’m pretty certain that’s the reason he didn’t say it to me.”

  “I see,” said Elfrida thoughtfully. “Did Mr. Sandford tell you all that? It sounds——”

  “No, he didn’t,” replied Ronnie. “He told me some of it, but afterwards I had a chat with Aunt Millie and she filled in the gaps. She told me that when Uncle Bob came back from Mountain Cross, after his interview with the Wares, he was terribly upset and miserable. All the more so because the Wares had told him that he wasn’t to see Marjory or correspond with her for at least a year. After that they would ‘reconsider the matter.’ Uncle Bob was obliged to accept their ruling—there was nothing else to do—so he went back to London and threw himself into his work. His father was the senior partner at the time and gave him plenty of interesting work to keep him busy.

  “Uncle Bob waited for a year,” continued Ronnie. “He had worked hard and won the respect of the partners in the firm and he was making a better income, so his father (who had been very sympathetic) advised him to write to Mr. Ware and remind him of his promise, but by that time Frederick Thistlewood had appeared on the scene . . . and you know what happened.”

  “Oh dear, how dreadful!” said Elfrida sadly.

  “Aunt Millie was rather bitter about it. She said Marjory was very fond of Uncle Bob and if they had been allowed to go on being friends and seeing each other it would have come all right . . . Marjory would have grown to love him. But the Wares interfered and sent him away. Aunt Millie said the Wares wanted ‘a good match’ for their daughter; they thought Bob Sandford ‘not good enough.’ They were sorry afterwards, when it was too late, because, in their opinion, he would have been better than Frederick Thistlewood.”

  “He would have-been much better.”

  Ronnie was surprised. He had been careful to say “in their opinion” because, after all, the man was Elfrida Jane’s father.

  “Well, go on, Ronnie,” said Elfrida after a short silence. “You haven’t told me what Mr. Sandford said about us.”

  “I know,” said Ronnie remorsefully. “I’ve put it all back to front. What he said about us came at the beginning of our interview. I told him that I didn’t want to leave him in the lurch when I was beginning to be useful; I told him we were willing to wait for a year before getting married . . . but he interrupted me and said, ‘No, no, Ronnie! That won’t do. If you’re in love with Elfrida, and she’s willing to marry you, there must be no waiting’.”

  “Because of what happened to Marjory?”

  “Yes. He didn’t actually say so, but that was the reason, of course. Then I repeated that I didn’t want to leave him in the lurch—because of all his kindness to me—and he glared at me as he always does when I mention his generosity. However I took no notice and went on to say that you had suggested we should get a house in or near London so that I could continue working in the office just the same. I told him that we would like to keep Mountain Cross and come here for holidays. Chowne could run the place with a man to help him.

  “He nodded and said that was a good idea. He wouldn’t like Mountain Cross to be so
ld because if possible, he was anxious to carry out Mr. Ware’s ‘last wish.’ He asked if I thought it practicable to make the place ‘self-supporting,’ as Mr. Ware had suggested. I told him yes, if we could buy back some of the fields and make it into a large pig-farm. I told him all your plans; I could see he was impressed.

  “Then I repeated for the third time that nothing would induce me to leave him in the lurch—and you felt the same about it. He thought for a bit and I remained silent. At last he said it was true that I was useful to him and, if you were agreeable, he would like us to get a flat in London so that I could stay on in the firm for six months or so until he could find and train someone to take my place.”

  “Ronnie!” exclaimed Elfrida. “Do you mean that after six months in London we can come home to Mountain Cross?”

  “It may take longer than six months.”

  “That doesn’t matter! Even if it took a year it wouldn’t matter!”

  “No, it wouldn’t matter because we’d be together . . . and we could look forward to coming home to Mountain Cross.”

  They were silent for a little while.

  “I want to tell you everything,” said Ronnie at last. “All the time we were talking I was expecting him to say something . . . but he didn’t, so I said it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Elfrida in bewilderment.

  “I said you were going to be very well off and I hadn’t a penny.”

  “Oh, I see! I suppose he told you it didn’t matter.”

  “No, he just smiled and said if I felt uncomfortable about it I could work like two men on the pig farm . . . and so I shall,” declared Ronnie. “It’s the kind of work I like: looking after animals and growing things and grubbing about in the good clean earth. I told him that. He said he had always known I wanted to be a farmer, but it had seemed an impossible ambition so he had put it out of his mind . . . but here was my chance and he was very glad indeed that I was going to have the life I had always wanted.”

  “How unselfish he is!” exclaimed Elfrida.